


Be Careful

by Vera_dAuriac



Series: The Debts We Make [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blood Kink, Canon Divergence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, OFC - Freeform, Off-Season, Scent Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Torture, UST, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:35:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4623852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/pseuds/Vera_dAuriac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All four boys are on a trip to Andorra to chat with the Dean of the Cathedral. Aramis has to cross into Spain, where a beautiful woman takes him prisoner and tries to make him talk.</p><p>"Be careful.</p><p>What hollow, pedestrian words to say to someone you cared about."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to make this story stand on its own for anyone who doesn't want to or hasn't read the previous story in the series. But I think reading in order is rewarded as well, so dive in where you please.
> 
> The story takes places between Seasons 1 and 2, which strikes me as deliciously fertile ground--nearly nine months when anything might have happened.
> 
> And just in case you didn't look closely at the Warnings, the story is Violent and Non-Con.
> 
> Also, I didn't create these character, etc.

By Vera d’Auriac

 

If Porthos stalked from the door to the fireplace one more time, Athos vowed he would leave his rather comfortable seat at the hearth’s edge and kick the man in the knee until he could walk nowhere for a week. Luckily for Porthos, he stopped at the fireplace and punched the wall next to it. Which proved unlucky for the wall, bits of mortar trickling to the floor.

“Where is he?” Porthos growled.

Athos, of course, had no answer. Aramis had gone to the cathedral to meet the Dean earlier that day. He was supposed to make contact with the French agent stationed in the town during the afternoon so the agent could report to d’Artagnan at the tavern in the evening. It was now 9:00 at night, and d’Artagnan had yet to return from the tavern, though he had sent a note an hour earlier saying there was still no sign of the agent. Yes, word should have reached them sooner, but at least as many innocent explanations existed as bad ones for why they had not heard from Aramis. For instance, the Dean reportedly kept a beautiful mistress. She could have Aramis occupied. Or the agent’s horse could have thrown a shoe on the ride to the tavern. Because they should have received confirmation from Aramis at least three hours earlier did not mean they should panic. Or so Athos tried to convince himself.

He had worried from the beginning about sending Aramis into Spain while they waited for him across the border in Andorra. But Aramis had assured them he could credibly pose as a scholar wishing to use the cathedral library. This would provide him an opportunity to meet the Dean, and discerning his intentions was the purpose of the mission, after all. From all reports, the Dean rarely if ever came to Andorra, joint French and Papal territory and part of the d’Urgell bishopric (which the Dean ruled in the absence of a bishop), so someone would have to go to him.

 _Be careful_. 

Those were Athos’s last words to Aramis. But when was Aramis ever careful?

“That’s it,” Porthos said, his jaw set. “I’m going to the tavern, and if d’Artagnan doesn’t know where Aramis is, I’m going to fucking Spain to find him myself.”

“Spain is a rather big place,” said Athos, sitting up straight, a plan formulating. “Where precisely are you planning to search for him?”

“Everywhere until I damned well find him.”

“A sentiment I appreciate, but it will be more efficient to know where you are going so I do not look in the same places.”

“So you agree something is wrong? This whole mission has felt wrong from the beginning.”

Athos did not want to point out that what Porthos found wrong from the beginning was splitting up and Aramis going off alone, even though it was clearly what had to be done. Instead, he laid out his plan to recover Aramis. “I think you should proceed to the tavern. If d’Artagnan still has not heard from the agent, tell the proprietor that if anyone arrives looking for us to send word here, where I will wait for another hour. Meanwhile, you and d’Artagnan will set off down the road to La Seu d’Urgell. Leave d’Artagnan to search the countryside and you continue on to Sant Sernide de Tavernoles and Les Valls de Valira. In an hour, if I have not heard from either of you, I will ride to La Seu d’Urgell myself. Have them saddle Roger for me so I can ride in an instant.”

“Good plan,” Porthos said.

“Search until morning if need be. Return here no later than 9:00 with or without him to report.”

“If it’s without him, I won’t be staying long.”

“Nor will I.” Athos rose and extended his hand. Porthos took it merely so he could more easily yank Athos into a painful embrace.

“All for one,” Porthos said.

“And one for all,” Athos answered.

Porthos, being Porthos and terribly worried about Aramis, had never disarmed, so he was able to march straight out the door. It would take him under a minute to walk down the village’s one street to the tavern. Then an equal amount of time to pass along Athos’s instructions to the proprietor. A few more minutes to grab d’Artagnan and ready the horses in the stable behind the tavern. Athos guessed Porthos and d’Artagnan would be in Spain in ten minutes.

In the meantime, he had to sit and worry. The chances were excellent Aramis was fine, his mission proceeding well. But if it were not…

 _Be careful_.

What hollow, pedestrian words to say to someone you cared about. Without Porthos to distract him, Athos now took up the duty of pacing from door to fireplace. But that became insufferable after the second turn. He left the combined sitting room and kitchen for the small house’s one other room. It was apply supplied with narrow beds and spare bedrolls to accommodate a goodly number of visitors. Aramis had tossed his saddlebags at the foot of one of the beds before hastily effecting his transformation from soldier to scholar. They had arrived at the house late in the morning and Aramis wanted to reach La Seu d’Urgell as early in the afternoon as possible, so he had not carefully repacked his bags as was his wont. D’Artagnan and Porthos often left their things strewn about, but Aramis was as fastidious about his personal belongings as his grooming and his weapons.

Athos picked up the crumpled shirt laying atop the bag that Aramis had worn on the ride here. He held it up by the shoulders and gave it a shake, intending to fold it and pack it away. But he was seized by an urge, remembering Aramis’s face when he had said goodbye. Athos brought the shirt to his nose and sniffed. At first, he was tentative, embarrassed that such a notion should ever occur to him, but he caught Aramis’s scent, his unique blend of sweat and leather, and at the collar his hair oil, and Athos could not contain his impulse. He buried his face in the shirt, sucked in the smell of Aramis, and with his eyes closed the scent proved so overpowering he could swear Aramis stood next to him.

His knees buckled and he sat down hard on the edge of the bed. He never moved the shirt, never stopped inhaling, but he did drop his right hand to grope himself through his pants. For two years, since that night Aramis had given him the most spectacular fellatio—a night neither of them ever referenced even obliquely—Athos had wanted Aramis. But Athos had never shown this desire to Aramis, had in fact become more distant and cold, and when he sent Aramis off on a mission where he might die, he had only feeble words of parting.

 _Be careful_.

Athos gripped himself hard and breathed more deeply. But when he groaned, he woke himself from whatever dream he had been in. 

He dropped the shirt from his face, and balled his other hand into a fist at his side. Disgusting. Then again, disgust was Athos’s old friend. He carefully folded Aramis’s shirt and placed it neatly in the top if the bag. Rising, he pulled his sword belt tighter, deciding he would not wait an hour—he would ride for La Seu d’Urgell now.

***

 _Be careful_.

Aramis had found them odd words accompanied by an even more unexpected gesture from Athos. But the words and gesture were most welcome, perhaps more so for being out of character. Just as Aramis walked out the door of the safehouse earlier that day, Athos had stepped out after him. Athos had put his hand to Aramis’s cheek, giving the beard underneath a gentle stroke with his thumb. 

_Be careful_.

Those had been Athos’s words while staring at Aramis with an intensity that had literally taken Aramis’s breath away. Before he could regain his senses, Athos had slipped back inside and closed the door.

Aramis had then set off, and he thought, for once, he was being careful, or at least not particularly reckless. But he had obviously been wrong, or he would not be in his current situation. He wouldn’t be wishing so desperately that he had returned Athos’s gesture, had in some way made it clear how much Athos means to him.

But he had been trying for two years to show Athos his true feelings. Ever since that bold, drunken night when Aramis had boasted how well he could suck Athos’s cock and then proven it, Aramis had longed to make Athos understand that it had not simply been the wine. But Aramis had never found a way to pierce Athos’s constantly reinforced armor. And now he might well never get the chance, now that he had espied a chink. 

All Aramis had to do was survive this Spanish dungeon, and he would return Athos’s touch and more.

This assignment to Andorra had sounded simple enough when Treville proposed it. King Louis and his advisors saw an opportunity to gain more control of the tiny land tucked into the French-Spanish border when the Bishop of d’Urgell died and all Europe awaited the Pope’s choice of successor. Theoretically, Andorra was ruled evenly by the French appointed governor and the Papal appointed bishop. With Louis on not especially good terms with Pope Urban, this meant the previous bishop had been Spanish and the Pope’s man entirely. Rumor had it the Pope wished to name one of his endless supply of nephews, but there had been difficulties with the Dean of the cathedral, who served as de facto bishop until the new man’s investiture. It was unclear if the Dean merely wanted power for himself or might possibly be pro-French, or at the very least, anti-Rome.

So Treville sent Athos, Porthos, d’Artagnan, and Aramis off to Andorra. On the ride they had decided the most logical course was for Aramis to travel to the cathedral, which lay five miles on the other side of the Spanish border. It had sounded like great fun to Aramis.

 _Be careful_.

Aramis could still feel Athos’s hand on his cheek if he closed his eyes and concentrated. 

He didn’t know how he could have been more careful. He had left all of his favorite weapons back at the safehouse, none of them appropriate to a scholar. But he worried little about arriving at the cathedral armed with nothing but his charm and an eating knife strapped to his satchel full of parchment and ink. The young priest who had greeted him at the cathedral appeared convinced by his ruse. Aramis thought little when the priest scurried off with his application to meet the Dean and consult the books in the library. He thought less when the priest returned with instructions for Aramis to come back at 5:00 when the Dean would be free. 

So, he had a few hours to himself. He contemplated going to the brewer’s to send word back to Andorra that he arrived well and had a meeting at 5:00 with the Dean. But that would likely mean the brewer, the only French agent Aramis knew about in La Seu d’Urgell, would be at the tavern talking to d’Artagnan when Aramis might finally have useful information after his meeting. Better to send the agent with relevant news late than send him with nothing useful on time.

Now, however, the bells tolled 10:00, and Athos, Porthos, and d’Artagnan would surely be concerned. But what would they do? If left to his own devices, Porthos would rampage through all of Spain looking for him. D’Artagnan, bless the young pup, would do what Athos ordered. And Athos would order a methodical search, and Porthos would listen to him as well. So Aramis merely needed to hold out until discovered. 

However, he had been locked in this cell for nearly five hours already, and he did not know how well he would say he was holding out. 

At 5:00 he had dutifully presented himself at the cathedral library. The Dean did not show him the same courtesy. Rather than finding tables filled with priests and scholars and monks, the library lay empty, save for a lone woman at the far end of the rows of tables. It was only Aramis’s keen eye for the fairer sex that allowed him to identify her as a woman. She wore tight leather pants with riding boots and a white shirt tucked firmly into the pants, and her glistening black hair was piled severely atop her head. But there was no way to disguise the curve of her hips, the roundness of her backside. When he got close to her and she turned, he saw that she’d rimmed her dramatic brown eyes with kohl and reddened her full lips. 

“Well, hello,” Aramis had said with a bow, as gallant as ever. “I have a meeting with the Dean. As much as I would prefer to spend the evening in the company of a woman as lovely as you, I wonder if you can point me in the right direction to find the Dean.”

“I am afraid the Dean has been otherwise detained,” she said, her voice resonant and honeyed. She stepped to within a few inches of him. “It is a common problem with scholars, as I’m sure you well know.” She smelled of jasmine. 

_Be careful_.

And Aramis had been. This woman had villainess stamped on her as thoroughly as any woman he’d ever met, save Athos’s wife. He had used his bow to conceal the fact he was loosening the little knife from his satchel. But he barely had it free when four soldiers, he assumed the Dean’s personal guard, materialized behind him. The woman pulled a knife from he saw not where, and placed its point two inches from his throat. 

If he’d had his guns, his sword, his daggers, he would have fought. Against five, he would not have liked his chances, but it wouldn’t have been impossible. But he had none of those. 

_Be careful_.

His sad little knife clattered to the floor. 

And the guards had taken him, bound him, and threw him into the back of a wagon. They had only traveled a few hundred feet when they stopped and hauled him out. While waiting to meet the Dean, Aramis had scouted the town, so he knew they were now at the Bishop’s palace. Unfortunately, he still was not about to meet the Dean. Instead, he was taken to the dungeon, stripped to his underclothes, and chained to the wall. 

Whoever had set the chains was quite clever. A metal ring was set into each wall about three feet up from the floor. Through each ran chains with wrist manacles at the ends. The length of the chains could be adjusted by setting a pin through the links near the ring. So when his jailers forced him to his knees in the middle of the room and stretched his arms out like Christ on the Cross, remaining on his knees was his only option. He could pull his feet up under him with effort, but squatting was worse than kneeling. The chains were so taut they kept him hovering painfully by the arms a few inches from the floor when he tried to sit. The best he could do was switch from kneeling on the left knee, then going to the right, before returning to a posture of genuflection. It felt terribly like being in church.

For hours they left him in this condition, knees bruised, arms aching, wrists raw, hands numb. It was an especially unfortunate way to find oneself in captivity. Even if someone unlocked his bonds this very second, it would take him several minutes to move on his own. He flexed his fingers, hoping to restore feeling, and shifted knees again, but he still felt hopelessly stiff. 

The only door to his cell creaked open behind him. He turned his head as far as his aching neck allowed, but having sat for hours in the dwindling moonlight coming through the sole window, the lamp the person carried blinded him. 

“This is not what I ordered,” said the woman from the library. The door closed behind her. Aramis being stretched out, each wrist chained to separate walls, effectively cut the room in half. But the woman slithered under the chain on the right so she could stand in front of him. In the stark flame of the lamp lighting her face from beneath, she was even more striking—strong cheekbones and a sharp jaw. But once again, it was primarily those huge, kohl-rimmed eyes, as dark as any Aramis had ever looked into, that captured his attention. Were she not responsible for chaining him up in a dungeon, he would quite happily spend the rest of his night trying to bed her. Even if she was a villainess. 

“You did not wish for me to be left in such an insalubrious manner. I thought those clods must not be following your orders. You are too much a lady to treat a helpless scholar in this way.” 

She grinned while she pulled forward a stool from the corner. But rather than sitting on it, she placed the lamp on it before coming directly up to him. She ran her long nails down his collarbone and across his chest. “I’ve never seen such a beautiful, such a fit, scholar.” She looked him in the eye while she scratched at one of his nipples. 

“Oh, no,” he thought. “This is not the appropriate time.” 

“And I think you misunderstand what order of mine has not be followed,” she continued. “I ordered that they strip you naked. You, my dear scholar, are not naked.” Her knife from earlier slid from the sheath on her belt to cut the laces holding up his underclothes. She pushed them down to his knees. “Up,” she ordered. 

He actually tried to lift his knees thanks to some involuntary reaction to strip in the presence of a beautiful woman, but his legs were impossibly weak from kneeling on hard stone for five hours. And God, he did not actually want to be naked. Quite soon she would be able to see. What was wrong with him? It was one thing to find pleasure in being restrained by a Parisian professional—but this woman wanted to hurt him. Might kill him. Perhaps he was as depraved as his confessor at the seminary had insisted.

All he said was, “I cannot.” 

She ducked under the chains and yanked at his underclothes, fighting them off his body. At one point, almost all of his weight was being supported by his arms. He couldn’t stop a yelp of pain, praying he didn’t tear, pull, or God forbid dislocate, anything in his shoulders. When she finished, he fought to catch his breath, concentrating on every joint, trying to sense if anything were wrong on a grand scale. He decided he’d suffered no lasting damage, only pain, when she took a fistful of his hair and yanked back without mercy. “Anything but the hair,” he thought, feeling it stir. 

“Decidedly better, do not you think?” Her wide mouth twisted into a hateful smile, while her nails dug into his scalp. “You are the most gorgeous man I’ve ever had the pleasure to invite here. I am very much anticipating getting to know you tonight.” She tugged his hair again, and he couldn’t help seeing the sparkle in her eyes as she looked down his body. She nodded. “And I see you’re looking forward to it as well.” 

He told himself to stop feeling guilty for what he could not control. This exotic, powerful woman who had complete control of him at the moment turned him on. Irrevocably. That was a fact not to be argued. Her tight black leather pants left as little to his imagination as her thin white shirt. And he’d always had a weakness for black boots with an abundance of straps. These were all things beyond his control. So what he needed to do was take control. The woman, he had no doubts, was skilled at her work and at seduction, but no one was as adept at the latter as he. Rather than berating himself, he would use his weakness to his advantage and seduce his torturer. 

“When in the company of such a woman, I cannot imagine any man would fail to react similarly.” With his head tilted back at this awkward angle, it did not come quite as effortlessly as when he could dip his chin and peek out from under his eyelids, but he gave her what Porthos had dubbed The Stare. It had supplied him with many pleasant nights, and perhaps he could now use it to save his life. “I am yours to do with as you please.” 

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that at the end of the night.” She pushed his head forward, then let go of his hair. Before he could begin working out the kink in his neck, she punched him hard at the base of his skull. “Yes, let’s see what I can get you to say, dear scholar,” she said, walking away from him to the corner of the cell. “Let us begin with your name.” 

“Pablo,” Aramis answered, shaking his head to clear it. “Pablo Mendoza.” 

“Oh, my pretty scholar, what I want you to say is the truth. And Pablo Mendoza is not your name.” While she spoke, she returned to a position directly behind him, so he could not see her at all. But he soon knew what she had been retrieving when the three knotted cords of the flagellant’s whip crossed his back. For religious purposes, flagellation was something he had experimented with a few times at seminary, before dismissing it as a useless path to God. In the houses of custom in Paris, it was something he’d indulged in a bit more frequently, judging it an excellent path to pleasure. 

“Pablo Mendoza,” Aramis repeated. “I have no other name to give, my lady. And what is your own?” 

She lashed him three times, his cock jumping with every stroke, even as he felt the blood start to trickle down his back. “I should like it if you called me Carmen.” 

“Carmen. An exquisite name for an extraordinary woman.” He tried to turn to smile at her, but this only earned him another punch to the head. He had not noticed her wearing rings earlier, but he clearly felt them now. 

“Your flattery is most charming,” Carmen said. “But I would rather know why you are in La Seu d’Urgell.” 

“To use the cathedral library. The manuscripts—.” Aramis could not finish his lie before the whip fell across his back another three times. 

“Why,” she pulled his hair, yanking to emphasize every word. “Are. You. Here?” 

“The 14th Century manuscripts,” he said, his pulse racing, pushing the blood out of his wounds. “They are unique examples—“

This time the whip lashed across his ass, and he couldn’t contain a whimper. His arms were on fire, he doubted he would walk properly for a week from kneeling for so long on this stone, but he could feel sexual excitement when the woman responsible for his confinement whipped his behind. It would take every bit of Jesuitical training he had received to justify this to himself. But that would have to happen later—for now, she struck his ass again, one of the knots pulling where his cheeks met. He whimpered again. 

“What is your name?” Carmen demanded. 

“Pablo Mendoza,” he panted. “From the University of Seville.” 

He held his breath, awaiting the next fall of the whip. It came, unexpectedly, across his chest, but without particular force. Carmen pressed up behind Aramis, her full breasts grinding into his shoulder blades. She gathered up the three cords of the whip in her free left hand. He saw what she was about to do moments before she did, but he was in all ways powerless to stop it. Carmen pulled the whip tight against his throat. “What is your name?” 

“Pablo Mendoza,” Aramis choked out. His response prompted her to pull tighter, her hands crossing at the back of his neck. 

“Why are you in La Seu d’Urgell?” 

_Be careful_.

Aramis tried to respond that he was there to look at the manuscripts in the cathedral library, but he could no longer speak. He could also barely breathe, which only served to make his cock ache. Carmen, apparently, understood in time and released the whip. He had a second to suck in a lungful of air before she lashed him three more times across the back and five on his ass. His only answer was a prolonged moan. 

She slipped under the chains again to face him. Her white shirt, still tucked tightly into her snug pants, clung to her with sweat and his blood. Carmen whipped him hard against the chest, ripping open a cut just below his left nipple. “This is useless,” she panted. “You’re enjoying this too much to tell me who you are or why you’re here.” 

“I might tell you a great deal if properly motivated,” Aramis answered. He nodded to her shirt, clinging to her chest, her hard nipples outlined against the blood-stained fabric. His blood. Fuck. That made him harder, if that were possible. “And I see you are enjoying yourself as well.” 

She glanced down at her chest and immediately saw what he referenced. She already stood close to him. He took his opportunity. He stretched his head forward, straining against his bonds, and pinched her nipple between his teeth. She gasped and pulled back, slapping him across the face with the hand still clutching the whip. Her breast heaved with the effort, and when she looked him in the eye, he once more gave her The Stare, his lips slightly parted, the tip of his tongue flicking out to moisten them. 

She kissed him so hard his lips hurt, smashed against his teeth. But he kissed her back with enthusiasm. The Jesuit in him explained this away by saying it was part of the plan to gain his freedom, not the work of his own deviant desires. Whatever it was, he enjoyed her tongue thrusting into his mouth, the way her biting his lower lip made him moan. 

Then Carmen pulled her mouth away from his. She instead kissed, sucked, bit his neck. Leaned over him and licked, nipped furiously at his shoulder and upper back. But then she rushed to his lips once more as though she could not believe she had managed to live so long without them. This time her kiss tasted different. It had a tinge of…metal? Iron? And Aramis realized what he was tasting was blood. His own blood, but in her mouth. He kissed her with renewed vigor. 

He could not say how long the kiss lasted, but he felt distinctly displeased when it ended. She panted a few inches from his face and he fought to breathe regularly himself. God, if only she were not a Spanish agent (for such he assumed), they might spend an unforgettable night of bliss together. He hadn’t enjoyed being controlled like this since Lucille retired from the Profession. But this was no time to cede control to a woman. “May I suggest,” Aramis said between gasps, “that you unshackle me? There is so very much I would enjoy doing to you, which I promise you would enjoy, if I had the use of my hands.” 

“I have no doubt you could,” Carmen groaned. “But when would your hands around my throat stop being about my pleasure and start being about murder?” 

“That is all part of the excitement.” He strained against his chains once more, but only barely managed to brush his lips against hers. 

She stood up straight and took a step back from him. He could no longer reach her in any way. “That would be more enjoyable to me than even you can understand. But I am not here for my own pleasure. I am here because I need to know who you are and why you are here.” 

“Dammit,” Aramis thought. “Where did I lose her? When I asked to be unshackled? Or even earlier when she broke the kiss? But what could I have done to prolong the kiss? I can’t literally hold her, and even my lips have their limits against a woman like this.” 

_Be careful_.

Some advice, Aramis decided, might be well meant, but a man did not have ultimate control over his fate. 

“Tell me,” Carmen begged, but with a hard edge invading her honeyed tones. “What is your name?” 

“Pablo Mendoza.” 

She still held the whip, and she unfurled it so it hung loose at her side. “Why are you in La Seu d’Urgell?” 

With her now in front of him, he thought of her lashing his chest, of the feeling of the knotted cords across his nipples. His cock remained as hard as ever. “To see the cathedral’s 14th Century manuscripts.” 

She struck him across the chest, but without much enthusiasm. One of the knots did, however, graze his right nipple. He crumpled forward the few inches his shackles allowed and groaned. But Carmen abandoned the whip, letting it drop to the floor. “All that does is excite you,” she said. “Excites us both.” She sighed. “I can’t leave here without knowing who you are.” She stepped back up to him, but if he had to guess, she was prepared to dodge any attempts he made to bite her again. 

Carmen tangled the fingers of her left hand in his hair once more, tugging his head back so he was looking up at her. “What is your name?” 

Without waiting for a reply, she made a quick movement down and took his cock in her right hand. Actually, she didn’t simply take his cock. Instead she dug those long fingernails of hers into the base and scratched her way to the tip like ripping the rind off an orange. Needless to say, he never had the chance to answer, “Pablo Mendoza.” Rather, he screamed, and this time without the slightest hint of pleasure.

“Why are you here?” 

Again, Aramis could not lie simply because he could not speak. Pushing in much harder than one would ever scratch any itch, she again raked the entire length of his cock with her nails. 

She was about to return to the base, he could only assume for another pass at him, when a gunshot sounded. Carmen froze, but it took Aramis several seconds to navigate the pain back to rational thought. A gunshot. Here, inside the dungeon. It could only be one or all of his brothers come to rescue him. Carmen slid around him to the door, but before she opened it there was another report, from a pistol to be precise, nearby. Aramis turned his head in time to see her returning to him. 

“I think it’s time for us to leave,” she said, unlocking his left wrist. His arm slammed down to his side, aching muscles and numb fingers overpowering his other pains. He yelled, quite involuntarily, but they both realized immediate what might happen if he yelled loudly enough. She flicked the knife from her belt and pressed the tip to the artery under his left ear.

“My preference, dear scholar,” she said, “is to continue our conversation, but I will kill you before I let you free. Now, be quiet while I unlock your other wrist. Rub your legs with your free hand and get some feeling going again.”

He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t dare; the merest prick where she held the knife’s point and he would bleed to death in under a minute. But he knew what the body could manage better than most, and if she truly thought he would walk under his own power anytime soon, she was mad. He rubbed his thigh nonetheless, his hand feeling pierced with a thousand needles. On one pass, he accidentally brushed his damaged cock, and he whimpered deep in his throat, unable to prevent some sound of anguish from escaping him. Carmen glared at him for this as she finished unshackling his right wrist. His hand fell in his lap, and he had to stifle another scream. Both wrists were raw, blood flowed down his chest and back, and as he’d feared, he could see that she had, indeed, drawn blood from his cock.

“Up,” she said.

Aramis listed over from his knee into a seated position. But when his behind, also whipped bloody, hit the cold stones, he groaned. “I think you have been a bit too good at your task, Carmen. Truly, my compliments on your technique.”

Her ringed fist connected with his jaw, and he simply could not contain a yelp this time. A ludicrous way to die, he decided. After all the pain he had suffered that night, he would get his throat cut because he failed to withstand a punch in the face, something that happened with regularity in Paris at the taverns and the practice yard.

But Carmen did not go through with her earlier threat. Instead, she pulled him by the hair at the crown of his head. “Get up. We’re going. I can help.”

He actually tried, not wanting her to kill him for lack of cooperation, but he simply could not stand. “Leave me here, Carmen. I’ll leave La Seu d’Urgell as soon as I can walk, and you’ll never see me again. There’s no reason why you cannot escape with your life.”

“What scholar merits an armed rescue?” she asked, letting him fall back to the floor. She scurried away to the left corner of the cell, and by means of some lever he could not see, opened a hidden door in the wall. “I believe you are more interesting than I realized. So I must insist we continue this conversation.”

Something beat hard against the door behind him. Once, twice, three times. The door flew open, and Carmen’s eyes went wide. Almost simultaneously, a shot from a pistol shattered a chunk of stone in the wall mere inches from her head, while she ducked down the hidden passage.

Aramis collapsed to the floor, exhausted by his pain. The world sideways, his cheek resting against the floor, he watched boots sprint by his head to the passage. They stopped, took a step through the opening, but then came back into the cell. With a hesitating gait, the boots walked to within inches of Aramis. They were good boots, a bit more worn at the toes than elsewhere, much like Athos’s boots, which got that way from the way he leaned on the rails of Roger’s stall. “Athos.”

“Aramis, thank God you’re alive.” And there, kneeling before Aramis was, in fact, Athos.

“Athos, I swear I tried to be careful.”

Athos placed a gloved hand on Aramis’s forehead. “I am sure you did. Now,” he stopped to clear his throat. “Now, I need to get you away from here. Let me get your clothes.”

“You should go after her. Leave me here. I’ll be able to move soon.”

“She is unimportant. And I cannot leave you here. Someone is bound to come investigate what is happening down here soon. Also, I only have one shot left.” Athos ran over to where Aramis’s clothes were heaped against the wall. “On with your pants.”

Aramis groaned at the very thought. “If anything touches me, I may scream. She…hurt me, Athos.”

Athos looked down at Aramis’s scratched cock, but he only nodded and set his jaw more firmly. “The only way to get you back to Andorra is on horseback. That will be decidedly more painful without pants.”

“You’re right.” Aramis swallowed, or more accurately attempted to, his mouth so dry. “Just do it.”

And Athos slid his pants on as swiftly, yet gently, as he could, while Aramis stifled his moans of agony.

“Boots and cape and I think that will be enough,” Athos said, pulling Aramis into a seated position. He looked at Aramis’s back. “I am going to hate putting you on Roger in front of me, but I’m afraid you will fall off if I do not hold you.”

Aramis nodded as Athos tugged on his boots. “I understand. Where are Porthos and d’Artagnan?”

“Looking for you, naturally. We may pass them on the way back to the safehouse, but I’m taking the forest path, not the main road.” He flung the cape around Aramis’s bloody shoulders. “Can you walk with help, or do you need me to carry you?”

Aramis took Athos’s hand and pushed it against his cheek, precisely where it had been earlier that day when he left the safehouse. “I tried to be careful.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The feeling that had shown there was not one Athos had ever seen on his friend, but it was an emotion Athos knew intimately—shame."

Athos had been as gentle as he could from the moment he found Aramis. He had clothed him with care, half-carried him out of the dungeon with the lightest touch he could manage, hoisted him into Roger’s saddle as smoothly as such a deed might be performed. But even on a horse with as easy a gait as any in France, Aramis was barely tolerating the ride back to the safehouse, and they had yet to cover more than half the distance.

Aramis whimpered as Roger started up a gentle incline.

“I am so sorry,” Athos whispered, trying not to touch Aramis’s raw and bleeding back, an impossible feat when riding behind someone. “Is there any way I can lessen your pain?”

“I still can’t believe you left the safehouse without a brandy flask. The one time I truly have need of it, you were in too much of a hurry.” Aramis’s words were as jovial as ever, but every one of them came out labored from between gritted teeth.

“My sincerest apologies,” said Athos. “In the future, I will leave a bottle hanging around Roger’s neck.”

Aramis laughed and groaned in equal measure.

Athos guessed that what pained Aramis most was the damage to his cock. In the weak lamplight, Athos had not seen the injury closely, but of all his various wounds, it had been the one Aramis named. And Athos had noticed the blood. If only there were some way to at least cushion him a bit; the saddle must be its own fresh hell. But with what? Not knowing what he could possibly hope to find, he looked down at himself…and found just the thing. 

“Can you take the reins for just a moment?” Athos asked. “You only need to hold them loose. You know Roger needs little guidance.” 

“Certainly, but why?” 

Aramis took the reins, and Athos reached up to his neck and removed his scarf. He folded it neatly, trying to determine where it would do the most good and be most likely to remain in place. Only one spot would work. 

“If you believe it would help,” Athos began, but stopped to clear his throat. He was only being practical, trying to alleviate his friend’s pain, and if it had been Porthos or d’Artagnan, he would not have hesitated. But this was Aramis, and Athos would never convince himself that Aramis wasn’t different. “I have my scarf bundled up. I wonder if we put this under…you, down the front of your pants, if it might not cushion the ride?” 

“Oh, God, Athos, I’ll try anything,” Aramis pleaded. “Please go ahead.” 

“So, you want me to….” 

“I’ve no room for modesty tonight. Athos, please.” 

And so Athos did. He had no difficulty reaching around Aramis’s waist and sliding his hand down the front of Aramis’s pants, which he had not done up properly. Where Athos found problems caring for Aramis was in his own mind. As he touched Aramis, slipped his hand and the scarf under his wounded brother, he felt a stirring in his own body. It had been building—Aramis, partially clothed on the horse in front of him, was always going to be a trial. But this nearly undid him. And then the guilt he felt almost finished him off. 

“Is that better?” Athos asked, taking the reins back with the hand—gloved, yes, but still the hand—that had just touched Aramis. 

Aramis shifted fractionally. “You know, I think it might be. Thank you, Athos.” 

“Can you think of anything else?” Athos asked, as Roger continued his same steady walk through the woods.

“I’m just so tired, and everything hurts. I would love to slump forward on this beautiful mane. I had to keep such a straight back the whole time. You didn’t see how I was chained—really magnificent, I must admit. But my arms were stretched so tight that if I slouched even a little, all of my weight went to my shoulders. Do you think Roger would mind?” 

Athos took his free hand, which he had not yet returned to the reins, and put it on Aramis’s shoulder. Sliding it across his collarbone, he pulled Aramis as close as he could without pushing on his back. His forearm now across Aramis’s upper chest, Athos said, “There. Lean against me. I won’t let you fall.” 

Immediately, Aramis sagged against him, and Athos had to fight the urge to embrace him tightly. For so many reasons. 

“Thank you. Truly. Thank you so much. I don’t know how to thank you enough.” 

“We are brothers. You need not thank me at all.” 

Aramis kissed Athos’s arm. “I do. Thank you.” 

They rode back thusly the remainder of the way to the safehouse, never crossing paths with Porthos or d’Artagnan, which surprised Athos not at all, given the route they had taken. It was probably an hour or two after midnight, so if Porthos took Athos’s direction to search until morning and return to the safehouse at nine, he had several hours to tend to Aramis alone. He thought of sending the proprietor of the tavern to find Porthos and d’Artagnan, but that would never work for two reasons. One, even though they had been told they could trust the proprietor, he was not an actual French agent. And two, Athos did not want to leave Aramis—even long enough to run down the street to the tavern. In fact, as much as he hated to do it, he was not even going to take Roger back to the stable. He would remove the saddle and get him water, but Roger could remain tied up outside the safehouse for the night. 

Dismounting, as Athos predicted, proved problematic. He jumped down just outside the back door that led directly into the bedroom. He hooked Roger’s reins over a post and looked back up at Aramis, who truly was leaning on the horse’s mane now. “I do not know how to get you down without causing you pain.” 

“Then get me down as fast as possible to get it over with.” 

Athos unlocked the back door. “Give me one moment,” he said and slipped inside. He lit a lamp and then went to the other room to grab one of the big buckets from next to the fireplace, planning to put water in it for Roger. But then he had an idea of how it might help get Aramis down. On his way back through the bedroom, he cleared Porthos’s gear off the bed closest to the door. He could think of nothing else to do to prepare for Aramis, so he went back out. 

He flipped the bucket upside down next to the horse and stood on it. With the extra height, he could get a better grip on Aramis and then lower him to the ground. “If you are ready, I am going to pull you down now. Once you’re on the ground, I will drag you just inside the door. Are you ready?” 

“You aren’t going to carry me like a damsel from one of the ballads?” 

“The only way I can think I could carry you without dropping you is over my shoulder, and I assume you would find that extremely uncomfortable. But if you insist, I will comply.” 

“No, no. I defer to you.” 

There was nothing elegant about the maneuver. At first Athos thought it would work best gripping him around the waist, then he moved to his armpits, and then almost dropped him altogether. But he did not—could not—let Aramis down so profoundly. Athos steadied Aramis and jumped off the bucket. Wrapping his arms around Aramis’s chest from behind firmly, but he hoped not too painfully, he dragged him inside. He deposited the patient on the bed with what care his weary muscles could manage. “Let me get your boots off, and then I have to get Roger some water before I tend your wounds.” 

“If you strip all of these horrible clothes off me first, I’ll tell you a secret.” 

“Are you feverish?” Athos asked, whipping off a glove and pushing a hand to Aramis’s forehead. 

Aramis chuckled. “The secret is I have an apple in the outside pouch of my saddlebag. Please give it to Roger for the most pleasant ride I’ve had in quite some time.” 

Athos pulled the cord on Aramis’s cloak. As it slipped off his shoulders, he winced and Athos immediately froze. “So sorry.” 

“No, no.” Aramis shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do. Just get it off.” 

Athos could not be hasty, no matter what Aramis suggested, but he did finish removing the cloak a few seconds later. Then he took off his boots, poor Aramis grunting the entire time. When it came time for the pants, Athos hesitated, but only for the briefest moment, and he prayed Aramis took no note of it. Athos slid them off slowly, as he had done innumerable times in his fantasies. But, of course, Aramis was hardly eager with desire tonight. In fact, Athos supposed desire was the last thing Aramis wanted to feel with his poor cock scraped so badly. 

“Are you well now?” Athos asked when he had the pants entirely off. 

“As good as I’m going to be any time soon. May I ask one last favor, though, before you tend to Roger?” 

“Of course.” 

“That brandy of yours.” 

***

Roger, Athos was certain, would forgive him. So he gave him water and the apple, removed his saddle, and hurried back to Aramis, beautiful Aramis so bloody and hurt. Knowing Porthos and d’Artagnan would be reluctant to return without Aramis, Athos prepared for many hours of tending Aramis alone, even though he was no physician. Hopefully Aramis would remain lucid enough to tell him what to do. 

A single lamp flickered on the small table at the head of Aramis’s bed. The light fitfully illuminated Aramis’s sweaty face, so lovely even with the damp sheen. But then the visage contorted with pain, and Athos rushed to perch on the edge of the bed and clasped Aramis’s hand. “Tell me how to help you.” 

“Go see what supplies are in the other room. Spirits, vinegar. If I’m terribly unlucky, salt. I’ll need you to clean all these wounds. I have fresh sponges and bandages in my bag. And we’ll use some of d’Artagnan’s balm, as well.” 

Athos squeezed his hand and set off for the other room. On his way through earlier, he’d seen a lamp on the table, and he lit it now. The room was sparse, four chairs around a table of unfinished wood, an oven, and a cupboard standing between the oven and fireplace. He threw open the cupboard, revealing some plates, cups, and bowls, along with several cookpots and utensils. Crouching to see all the way to the back of the bottom shelf, he thought he spied something promising. Scooting spare lamp oil and candles to the side, he reached a jug, covered in dust, but with a cork firmly in place. With a good bit of wiggling, he got the cork free. The blessed scent of vinegar wafted up. 

Lamp in one hand, treasure in the other, Athos made haste back to Aramis’s side. “A nice, big jug of vinegar. Should I start with it, or water first?” 

“I honestly don’t know how much of this I’ll be able to stand. Let’s just clean everything with vinegar and be done with them. Assuming nothing needs to be stitched, and no offense to you, Athos, but I pray to the Blessed Virgin nothing needs stitched.” 

“As do I,” Athos answered, sincerely hoping the same. Aramis was the only one of them truly talented at sewing up wounds, and Athos was as likely to do more harm as good with needle and thread. The second lamp joined the first on the table and he set the jug down so he could fetch Aramis’s bag and the balm out of his own. When he returned to the bed with Aramis’s bag and opened it, the first thing he saw on top was Aramis’s shirt, the one he had been sniffing earlier. He pushed it to the side, hoping the flare he felt did not show on his cheeks. At the bottom, he found the sponges, carefully wrapped in clean white cotton, and beside them the bandages. 

“We’ll have to riffle through d’Artagnan’s bag later for his balm, but I’m sure he won’t mind,” Aramis said, as Athos laid out his materials. 

“No need. I insisted he give me some. I have plenty in my bag.” 

“You’re so good with him, you know.” 

“I gave him an order; he followed it. Some people do listen to me.” 

Aramis clutched Athos’s hand. “I did listen. I swear. I don’t know how I could have been more careful.” 

Athos squeezed Aramis’s hand quickly before yanking his own away. “Please stop reminding me that I said something so ridiculous.” 

“You could never be ridiculous, Athos.” 

“Where should I begin?” 

Aramis said nothing, so Athos finally looked in his face to see what was wrong. A question was in Aramis’s eyes, but Athos dared not puzzle it out. Instead, he remained silent and unflinching until Aramis sighed. “Top down, I suppose. I believe there are some cuts on the back of my head.” 

Athos nodded, soaking the first sponge with vinegar. “Yes, I saw some blood when we first set off, but I believe the bleeding has stopped.” Athos leaned over Aramis awkwardly. He lay on his side, likely the least painful position available to him. Asking Aramis to shift was something Athos would not do, so finally he stood and went to the foot of the bed. With a good push that he hoped did not jar Aramis too much, he moved the bed far enough away from the wall that he could squeeze in behind Aramis. Grabbing the jug and sponge, he went to work. 

The cuts to Aramis’s scalp, thankfully, were superficial, and would not require Athos to quite possibly permanently mar Aramis’s gorgeous head with needle and thread. He brushed the hair away from the scrapes as best he could, hoping to keep the wounds open to the air. Dabbing a bit more vinegar everywhere he spotted dried blood, Athos let his left hand, holding back Aramis’s curls, sink into them. Once he finished, he could not stop a comforting gesture, a small petting. But he required both hands to apply more vinegar to the sponge, and he forced his fingers out of the tangle atop Aramis’s head. 

“How does it look?” Aramis asked. 

“The cuts in your scalp are shallow. I’m going to start on your back now. With so much blood, it’s difficult to tell how severe these are until I get them clean. But I do not think anything is still actively bleeding, so I have every hope your back will be spared my stitching.” 

As gently as he would touch a frightened horse, Athos began sponging Aramis’s back, but he almost immediately hissed in pain. Athos stilled his hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “So sorry. What did I do that hurt?” 

“You did exactly what you’re supposed to do.” Aramis reached up and patted Athos’s hand. “Please continue, even if I start screaming. If any of these get infected, I’ll be in much worse pain.” 

Athos deliberately washed the blood from Aramis’s shoulder blades. The lashes were long and jagged, but so far none of them was especially deep. One running diagonally from his right shoulder to his spine was wider than the others, and would likely need special care to prevent infection, but other than that, they just needed to be cleaned and kept that way. “There are a few spots we might want to put some balm on. Perhaps prepare a poultice.”

“Very good. We’ll see how much balm we have. And when d’Artagnan returns, I’ll send him out for plantago major. For tonight, let’s just get me clean, and then I’d like to try to sleep.”

Athos patted Aramis’s head. “Of course. If you can, sleep now.”

“I think I will eventually require more of your brandy.”

After another stroke of Aramis’s hair, Athos switched to a fresh sponge and wetted it to finish washing the lower back. He scooted down the bed for a better look at Aramis’s backside. Both cheeks were ripped as raw as his back. Like removing his pants, touching Aramis here was something Athos had given an excessive amount of thought over the past two years. Firm and curved so perfectly, Athos had wanted to grab it, hold it, rub his hands over it, but now he told himself to put such feelings aside. The body he had so longed for had been injured; the brother he loved had been tortured and lay here in pain.

More gently than he had done anything that night, Athos dabbed at these wounds. He wanted to find the woman who did this, who had dared to scar this beautiful body, and rip her limbs off one at a time. Revenge rarely supplied him motivation, but for this woman, he would make an exception. To have hurt Aramis so! How could anyone do such a thing? Athos sniffed. 

“Are you well?” Aramis asked.

“Simply weary of vinegar fumes.” Athos ran a cuff over his face. “I believe that takes care of the back. I will come around to wash the front, and pour you more brandy.”

When he reached the other side of the bed, Athos had the opportunity to set down the jug and sponge, but not to refill the brandy glass, before Aramis clutched his left hand. The gentle tug Aramis gave stopped Athos, and he took a seat on the bed. Aramis glanced at him briefly before lowering his eyes. He even started to pull his hand away, but Athos held it tight. With his free hand, he brushed the damp hair from Aramis’s sweaty brow. “What is it?” Athos asked.

“I’m sorry,” said Aramis. “I….” But he did not continue, only held Athos’s hand tighter. 

“Sorry for what? You did nothing wrong,” Athos reassured him, running his fingers through Aramis’s curls. “You were captured and tortured. You have nothing for which to apologize.” 

“But Athos.” And now he did look up, pain and pleading in his dark eyes. Athos could see so much hurt on Aramis’s face before he turned away once more. The feeling that had shown there was not one Athos had ever seen on his friend, but it was an emotion Athos knew intimately—shame. But what could Aramis feel ashamed about? Certainly not lying here naked being treated—Aramis was more physician than most men who claimed that title. No, Aramis’s embarrassment could not be bodily; it must be spiritual shame. Yet, why feel that over being capture and tortured? It had happened to all of them in the past. Perhaps Aramis had lowered his guard, done something foolish, that led to his capture? Given his recent sexual history and Athos’s chastisement for that behavior, maybe Aramis blamed himself and his libido for his current troubles. Had he been tricked by that exotic woman who had hurt him? This struck Athos is the most likely explanation, and he wished to alleviate Aramis’s guilt.

He leaned forward and kissed Aramis’s forehead. “Do not be troubled. By anything. Please, just allow me to care for you.” Aramis stifled a sob, and Athos sat back up. He patted Aramis’s head once more and pulled his other hand free so he could begin cleaning the wounds on Aramis’s chest.

Athos wasn’t surprised to find the cuts on the chest fewer and less severe. Most torturers whipped from behind, upholding a long tradition in human history. But a smart torturer, one skilled in the art, understood that a hostage’s ability to see the implements of his pain could yield even better results than actual pain. So whether or not it was a whip, pistol handle, belt, chain, or what have you, it was always a smart idea to threaten, and if necessary use, torture devices where the hostage could see them. And Aramis seemed to have encountered a woman who understood her business.

Athos washed off a few minor scrapes on Aramis’s abdomen, and paused, looking down.

“How…?”

“Water and then d’Artagnan’s balm,” Aramis answered. “Give me a clean sponge and the balm, and I will take care of it myself.”

Athos set down his used sponge. “I don’t mind.”

“Athos, really.”

“You are exhausted and have been through so much. Allow me to tend your wounds, _all_ of your wounds, as you have always tended mine. ” Athos jumped up and filled the glass with brandy. He took a healthy drink prior to handing it to Aramis. “I will return with a basin of water.”

Without awaiting a reply, Athos hurried to the other room and the little pump and sink in the corner on the other side of the oven from the cupboard. A wooden basin awaited him, clearly sitting there waiting for someone’s ablutions. Athos felt as though he needed to bathe, to clean himself of his depraved thoughts and wants. He pumped some water into the basin and splashed his face with it, but still felt too unclean to touch something so beautiful as Aramis. And not simply touch him, but touch Aramis where he had always longed to touch him most in his sinful fantasies. Athos refilled the basin, wishing his mind pure for the sake of his injured friend.

He returned to the room with the water to find that Aramis had dribbled as much of the brandy on his pillow as he had drunk. Athos put the basin on the now overcrowded table and sat down to prop Aramis up while he drank. When he finished the glass and smiled, Athos laid him back down and fetched a dry, clean pillow from one of the other beds. “Let me change that for you.” And he lifted him up again, but this time placing Aramis’s head in his lap. The unclean part of him did not want to accomplish his feat quickly, but what better nature he retained swiftly swapped out the soiled pillow with a clean one. Athos could not help stroking Aramis’s lovely hair a few times before placing his head on the fresh pillow.

Aramis might have simply been exhausted, but Athos sensed fear and the earlier shame in Aramis’s refusal to look up. Athos, heart throbbing, kissed Aramis on the cheek. “All will be well,” he whispered.

Still, no response from Aramis, but Athos could not allow that to stop him from tending Aramis’s wounds. Yes, it was an intimate injury, but permanently debilitating and potentially fatal from infection, if not treated promptly. It had already been several hours, an eon in terms of proper wound care.

So, Athos wetted a clean sponge. He steeled himself, fearing what hesitation might mean to Aramis emotionally, and moved adroitly to the injured cock. He cradled it in his left hand, while wiping it clean with the sponge in his right. Aramis whimpered, and Athos hated to imagine the pain. “Shh. I’ll be done with this part in a moment.” Aramis sobbed quietly, but with a nod of acquiescence. Lifting Aramis’s flaccid member, Athos cleaned all around it, removing all the dried blood.

Athos put the sponge on the table and washed his hands on the basin, drying them on the cotton rags in which the sponges had been wrapped. Next to this was the tin of d’Artagnan’s balm he had placed there earlier when setting out supplies. While he sensed nothing he could say might ease Aramis, Athos turned back from the table, and said, “We will soon be done. You have been a much better patient than usual.”

“I don’t want you to put the balm on.”

“And just when I declare you a good patient.”

“I can tell that if…. Athos, you’re a man. It is a place that when touched produces a reaction. I…. If I get hard, it will be excruciating.”

“I will go slowly,” Athos offered. “And stop if I notice anything.”

“Yes, Athos,” said Aramis, twisting his mouth into not quite a grin. “Go slowly. Draw it out. That will be decidedly better.”

Athos rested a hand on Aramis’s cheek, touching him just as he had so many hours earlier when he warned him to be careful. “Suffer a little pain now for the benefit of your cock working for years to come.”

“It might be better if I didn’t have a working cock.”

Athos brushed his thumb along Aramis’s beard. “Nonsense. Besides, although it will no doubt be painful, if it is erect, it will ensure a more even application of the balm.”

“Athos, if you understood what happened, you would be quite pleased if it putrefied and fell off.”

A knot formed in the pit of Athos’s stomach at the very idea. “I would never wish that.” Brushing the backs of his fingers up Aramis’s cheek to his temple, Athos tucked some hair behind Aramis’s ear. “Now, I am going to put the balm on. Do not fight me on this.”

And Aramis did not resist as Athos removed the lid and dipped in his fingers. He did not quarrel when Athos once more cradled his cock in the left hand and stroked with the right. He did not argue as his cock grew with Athos’s every touch.

On the other hand, Athos waged a battle within himself. He wanted to apply the balm with his own fingers until Aramis stood slick and erect, and then he would…what? The poor man was horribly hurt. Arousing him would only hurt more. But Athos had longed for two years to stroke Aramis until he came all over his trembling hand. He wanted to stroke Aramis until he became erect and could fuck him until he was limp and spent and Aramis had filled him. More than anything, he wanted to stroke Aramis, but only as a preliminary to taking him in his mouth, sucking him hard and deep, until Aramis came down his throat. He wanted most of all to repay Aramis for what he had done two years ago.

But not now. Now, Aramis needed the most attentive medical care Athos could provide, and Athos noted Aramis growing erect. He stopped applying the balm and breathed deeply. After a few seconds stabilized Aramis’s arousal, Athos dipped his fingers into the tin to scoop out more balm. When the beginnings of excitement seemed to pass, Athos finished treating Aramis’s wounds.

More reluctantly than decency dictated, Athos let Aramis go and washed his hands once more in the basin. He did so all the more hastily when he realized the urge he had to smell them. Of course, he had no idea what he would do tomorrow knowing he would want to again when the balm needed to be reapplied. Perhaps by then Aramis truly would be able to tend this particular wound himself.

“I believe that is everything,” said Athos. “Are you cold? Could you stand a blanket? Or should I build a fire?”

“I’m not cold, and a blanket would be hell. No, I just want to sleep.”

“Then I will put out the lights and leave you be.”

“Please don’t leave,” Aramis said, sounding as pained as he had at any point during this ordeal. Still drying his hands, Athos looked down at him. Aramis’s face was turned up to his at an angle that must surely strain his sore neck. His wide, brown eyes made it impossible for Athos to decline.

“Very well.” Athos strode to the bed on the other side of the door leading outside, sat down, and started taking off his boots.

“No, Athos. Please come back over here.”

Athos scraped a knuckle against one of the buckles on his boot when his hand slipped. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

“I….” Aramis paused to clear his throat. But he did not continue; he did not have to, the silence proving more overwhelming than any words he might have said.

Athos kicked both boots off and returned to Aramis’s bedside. He tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, but he could not swallow. Completely unprepared for what came next, he resumed his seat on the edge of the bed. “Is this better?”

“Lie down and go to sleep with me,” Aramis whispered.

“Aramis,” Athos tried to sound scolding when he said it, but it came out more like a plea. “That, that is a terrible idea. The bed is so narrow, I’d be as like to push you out the other side as not.”

“Then put the bed back up against the wall so you can’t.” Before Athos could object, Aramis added, “Please stay with me.”

Athos felt more capable of cutting off his own arm than saying no to Aramis, as was so often the case. Aramis was persuasive and brilliant and handsome and nearly impossible to refuse in all ways. Not that this ability always benefitted Aramis or those around him at the end of the day. But all the same, Athos rose and moved the bed back against the wall. When he resumed his seat, he faced the foot of the bed so he could lie down next to Aramis when he convinced himself that such a thing was possible.

“Take off your jacket. Be comfortable,” Aramis said. “Take off what you need to be able to rest.”

The throbbing in his pants assured him he would not be removing them. But his jacket, yes. The buttons and the bulging pockets were never conducive to sleep, not that he intended to sleep. For one, he worried he would inadvertently jerk and hit Aramis. Also, Porthos and d’Artagnan were still out there, in Spain. Until they returned safely, until he knew he would not need to mount a similar rescue mission to save either of them, he would not close his eyes. And finally, if they had gone to Spain, what would stop one of their agents from coming to Andorra? No, he had to protect Aramis, still. He had to be careful.

His jacket tossed over the foot of the bed he had intended to sleep on, Athos lay down on his side, facing Aramis. So beautiful, even in the midst of his suffering. A bruise peeked out from the edge of his beard, but something like that could not diminish Aramis. Athos could not help reaching out to the spot and placing his fingers lightly atop the wound. He wanted to say something, but he could not allow himself to speak another phrase so trite as earlier. What he wished to say was a simple “I love you,” but no words had ever seemed so impossible. He finally settled on, “I will always take care of you.” 

Aramis smiled and took Athos’s hand from his cheek. “I know you will. Even when I don’t deserve it.” Athos tried to protest, but Aramis shook his head and pinned Athos’s hand between his own. Aramis then curled up with Athos’s hand pressed to the corner of his mouth like a child might sleep with a favorite doll. For the first time since the rescue, Aramis appeared to be at peace, his eyes closed, his breath slowing, and in moments, he was asleep. 

But Athos’s eyes never closed, never left Aramis, never ceased aching and wanting. The general idea was not new to Athos. He had spent most nights for the past two years not sleeping unless he was drunk, instead lying in his bed thinking of Aramis. Of course, once he had discovered She was still alive, She had haunted his waking dreams a fair amount as well. But his desire for Aramis always lingered nearby. 

Not that Athos had ever been able to determine what to do with his feelings. At first he had relived in his mind every second of Aramis’s mouth on his cock. He had promised the best fellatio of Athos’s life and he had delivered. Athos’s ache to feel it again, to wind his fingers through Aramis’s hair while he knelt before him, was like a wound that refused to heal. But then his imaginings expanded, and he thought about what it would be like to pay that debt, to put his lips around Aramis. To his surprise, this excited him even more than the memory of Aramis doing it to him. Athos could not decide if it was the anticipation of the unknown versus the experienced, or the opportunity to give instead of receive that he found so stimulating. 

But his fantasies did not end there, nor did his inability to know what he wanted most. Soon the notion that he could have…intercourse with Aramis struck him. Night after night he wavered back and forth between wanting to fuck and wanting to be fucked by Aramis, to put it crudely. One night he would be so hard he barely had to touch himself in order to ejaculate thinking about his cock in Aramis’s ass. But the next night he would be nearly as stimulated by the mere thought of Aramis’s cock in his own ass. 

This is when his true depravity began. Athos needed to know what it would feel like to be penetrated. He stormed around the garrison for two days, frightening everyone in his path, including Aramis and Porthos, while he tried to solve the dilemma. Without coming to a formal decision, he returned home the night of the second day drunk, but not half so drunk enough, and grabbed the first thing that seemed remotely appropriate—his whip. The handle was about the correct diameter, and he did not care about the length or flexibility. He dumped some of the beard oil that Aramis, of course, had bought him for his birthday, stripped off his clothes, and climbed into bed. 

It became apparent the whip handle would simply not go in as it, or more accurately, as he was. Rubbing some oil on his fingers, he reached around as well as the angle allowed to prepare himself. He eventually felt open enough, and his cock lay stiff against his stomach, but the experiment proved a disaster. The moment the whip handle entered him, it felt wrong. Not painful physically (although it did hurt) and not morally (although it was a sin), but impersonal and sad in a way masturbation usually was not. After a few minutes, he removed the whip and vowed not to repeat the experience. He hadn’t come. 

All of this and more raced through Athos’s mind as he stared at Aramis sleeping. What would he have given on any one of those sleepless nights to have Aramis naked in his bed? Now he only felt ashamed for thinking about his friend in this way at this moment. 

He was about to say to himself that he had never felt more ashamed, but then he remembered his night with Segolene. Aramis, Porthos, and d’Artagnan had all been occupied elsewhere, d’Artagnan probably with Constance, although pretending to not be spending time with Constance, and the other two enjoying each other’s company over wine and cards. Athos had gone out on his own and deliberately selected a house of custom he had never been to with the others. He had chosen the first woman he saw, Segolene, and taken her upstairs. 

He had not known how to ask her for what he wanted, but he was clearly not the first man to stand stammering in her room. Eventually her red curls had bounced up and down as she understood that he “wanted some from behind.” When she began explaining his options and the payment schedule for fingers versus porcelain phalluses versus polished wood phalluses, he had to force himself not to flee the room. 

“What…,” he had said, “feels the most like a man’s…cock?” 

“If you want a man’s cock, I can call Claud in. I mean, I’ll be sorry to lose your business, but Madame always says to leave the patrons happy.” 

This time he had not been able to stop himself from leaving. And it was not solely from the horrific idea of paying another man to fuck him. No, Athos had always found it distasteful to pay for intimacy, so that was nothing new. What startled him most was the realization that he did not want to have sex with a theoretical man—he wanted to have sex with Aramis. He had gone straight home and drunk himself sick. 

And so the longing had grown, questions still unanswered, but his desire and affection for Aramis building. Now all he could do was watch Aramis sleep and try to care for him. The idea of any love, any physical demonstration of feelings between them should be buried. Yet, Aramis held Athos’s hand so close, in an innocent need for physical comfort after trauma. If this was what Aramis needed in order to sleep, Athos would lay like this with him every night. 

***

When Aramis woke the next morning, Athos was gone from the bed. He forced his stiff neck to move, tilting his head enough to see Athos pass by the door, busy with something in the other room. He was dressed—boots, jacket, and a fresh scarf. 

The events of night before were as clear to him as the morning sun coming through the clean window. Athos had been so tender, cared for him not simply as a brother-in-arms would be expected to do. He had expressed a deep affection that built so naturally on his admonition to “Be careful.” Modesty in the face of medical necessity was always abandoned, as Aramis understood better than most. And when in severe pain, grown men often shared intimate gestures of comfort they would not at other moments. Yet the way Athos had treated his wounds, kissed his forehead, held his hand all night went beyond this. It was love. The kind of love Aramis had quietly been wanting from Athos for two years. 

And now that he had it, Aramis vowed to push it away. 

He had never been worthy of Athos; Aramis knew this. But after what had occurred yesterday in the bishop’s dungeon, he was so far from deserving Athos, it made him sick to think of Athos, providing him with even medical care, let alone love. While Athos had been risking his life to rescue him—while Porthos and d’Artagnan were in danger trying to do the same—Aramis had been getting off on his torture. 

He laid in the bed using every trick of logic and reasoning he had learned at the seminary, but he could not justify his behavior. While his brothers risked all to save him, he had been hard and panting, wanting more from an enemy agent who, if given the chance, would have killed him and Athos and anyone else who tried to help him. 

He was not good enough for anyone. Not Athos or Anne or his son, or Porthos and d’Artagnan for that matter. They, in fact, would be better off without him. If Aramis truly loved any of them, he would wander off the trail on the ride back to Paris and become a hermit somewhere out of the way where he couldn’t hurt or disappoint anyone. 

How self-pitying he sounded! Typically, this was not his particular vice, but that only reassured him his thoughts were less self-pity and more hard truth. He could stay with the Musketeers, avoiding intimacy with those he should not be intimate with, especially Athos, or he could hide away and admit defeat. 

Perhaps he would one day, but not today. 

“You’re awake,” Athos said, coming back into the room. In a few strides, he was back at the bed, sitting on the edge as he had the night before. But then Athos hesitated. Aramis held his breath. After a few pounding heartbeats, Athos brushed the hair from Aramis’s forehead. 

“Almighty God,” Aramis thought. If Athos had done that yesterday morning, when they woke in the woods by the burnt-out remains of the fire, Aramis would have been ecstatic. Perhaps God had been trying to save him from yet another sin, one that would have dragged Athos into his depravity, by delaying this moment. If it had been yesterday, Aramis would have taken Athos’s hand and kissed every finger. He would have wanted to do more, inhibited by the presence of Porthos and d’Artagnan, but he would have managed to whisper in Athos’s ear that he wanted the same thing, and they would have it soon. 

But it was today. It was the morning after his lowest night. After he had managed to even disgust himself. God works in mysterious ways. God had given him Carmen so he would not lead Athos into sin. 

“Yes,” Aramis finally answered Athos, shrinking back from his touch as completely as he had reached out for it the night before. In his pain, physical and spiritual, he had needed Athos in the night. Here in the light of day, it was time to cut whatever tentative links had begun to form between them. “What time is it?” 

“Nearly nine. Hopefully, Porthos and d’Artagnan will return soon. If not, I will have to leave you and go find them.” 

“Of course. You should be getting ready to leave, just in case.” It only now occurred to him, now that Athos might leave him, that he was naked. “Leave me with a loaded pistol and a blanket and I’ll be fine.” 

Athos leapt up from the bed. “Are you cold? I’m so sorry. Last night you didn’t want anything touching you, but the morning is chilly.” 

“Yes, please. A blanket would be nice,” said Aramis, although he felt no twinge of cold. If anything, he was flush and warm. “And whether you have to leave or not, you should see to Roger.” 

Athos gently draped a blanket over Aramis. 

After tucking it in around Aramis, although clearly thoughtful not to make it too tight, Athos returned to his seat. “I have already been out to feed and water Roger. He needs only to be saddled, and I can be gone.” Once more, Athos touched Aramis’s cheek and brushed his thumb along his beard. 

_Be careful._

Aramis would never forget. And he needed to be careful now, careful of Athos’s soul and heart. 

“It was nice of you to tend my wounds,” Aramis said, firmly plucking Athos’s hand from his cheek. The manner in which he settled the hand on the bed, as far away from his body as he could, Aramis hoped signaled to Athos that his feelings were not reciprocated. Even though they were. Aramis forced himself to look at Athos to see his reaction. The softness, the timidity that had transformed Athos’s countenance in the night had disappeared. It was replaced by the look Athos usually wore—a stoic coldness to hide his pain. 

And Aramis wanted to take it all back. Wanted to return Athos’s calloused, yet gentle hand, to his cheek. He yearned to close his eyes and snuggle up to Athos’s leg and feel safe as he had felt in the night. He longed to say, “I love you,” to kiss Athos and hold him close. Even though he knew it would be a mistake, to pull Athos close when he knew it was best to push him away, Aramis’s hand was already moving toward Athos’s so he could bring it to his lips and kiss it. 

“Athos!” Porthos bellowed from the other room. 

Aramis’s hand stopped so close to Athos’s that with his eye it looked as though they were touching; he only knew they were not because he could not feel him. 

Athos rose from the bed and headed for the other room. “I have him. He is safe. D’Artagnan?” 

“Seeing to our horses at the tavern.” Porthos literally pushed by Athos in the doorway. “Aramis! You devil. How long have you been lying in bed while I ran around half of Spain looking for you?” He seemed about to embrace Aramis but paused, understanding Aramis was wounded, and knelt next to the bed. 

“Oh. I have no idea when Athos got me back here.” Aramis looked over Porthos’s shoulder to Athos. “Do you remember?” 

“Not as early as I would have liked,” said Athos. The words were affectionate, the tone typical of Athos, and yet Aramis could hear the frost in them. “Excuse me, but as long as you are here, Porthos, there are things I have been wanting to tend to, but I did not wish to leave the patient alone.” 

“How bad are you hurt?” Porthos asked Aramis. 

“I’m going to need some looking after.” 

Porthos smiled, but Aramis saw Athos recoil. 

“Speaking of which,” said Athos, “you wished for d’Artagnan’s help gathering materials for a poultice. I will go see him at the tavern, and we will begin gathering what you need.” 

“How long until you can ride?” asked Porthos. 

But Athos did not allow Aramis to answer. “I will find us a cart. We will leave today.” 

“Is that safe?” Porthos growled, turning to put his question directly to Athos. 

“It will be fine,” answered Aramis, reaching out to pat Porthos’s shoulder. “A little straw to pad my bed in the back, and I won’t feel a single bump.” 

“That doesn’t sound good enough at all.” Porthos said, looking as though he wished Aramis were fit to fight him on this point. 

“I worry it could be more dangerous to everyone’s health if we stay,” said Athos. 

Porthos moved his gaze between them several times, clearly still not convinced. 

“Truly, Porthos,” said Aramis. “Don’t worry. We’ll be careful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to donna_immaculata for answering my question about 17th Century wound care. Any mistakes are clearly my own.


End file.
